


Throttle

by lawatsonholmes, Valeria2067



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Leather Kink, M/M, Motorcycles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-17
Updated: 2012-09-17
Packaged: 2017-11-14 10:03:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/514060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lawatsonholmes/pseuds/lawatsonholmes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valeria2067/pseuds/Valeria2067
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a prompt involving Sherlock, John, leather and motorbikes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Throttle

“For God’s sake, Sherlock! Try to loosen up and enjoy it. D’you mean to tell me you and John never just go out for a pint like normal mates?”

John rolled his eyes at Lestrade. “Yeah. Normal and Sherlock in the same sentence. Good luck with that, Greg.” He finished off his stout and set the glass down a bit too heavily.

Sherlock fixed John with his peculiar stare. “You never seem to tire of complimenting me, John.”

“You’re the only bloke I know who would take that as a compliment.” He motioned toward the barkeep for another pint then turned back to Sherlock. “Why are you here anyway? I thought you were deeply engrossed by your efforts to blow up the kitchen.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, but before he could speak, John leaned in. “I left the flat to get away from you. Your mess, I mean.”

“Ah. The mess is what makes you nervous, is it? You’ve been more agitated than usual for the past two weeks, yet the state of our flat has remained virtually unchanged. You’re nervous right now, John. Have I made a mess of the pub, as well? Or is there something else causing your… discomfort?”

_Smug bastard. Smug, tall, arrogant, bastard. Thinks he’s the centre of the universe because of his brains and his… cheekbones._

“Your face, actually” John blurted. Hell, it was the truth, wasn’t it? Sherlock’s impossibly perfect fucking face had been causing John discomfort for some time now. So, John could be honest and childishly churlish and have the satisfaction of Sherlock narrowing his eyes and pinching his lips. Which he was doing just now.

“My face?” Sherlock repeated, and his quietly simmering tone told John he’d hit his mark.

John damn near grinned as Sherlock prepared to launch into him.

“Now, lads, let’s not, eh?” Lestrade cut in. He shifted uneasily. “John’s just taking the piss, Sherlock, pay him no mind, all right?” He looked at John. “And you, stop antagonizing the genius.”

John lifted his hands in mock-surrender. “Sorry, sorry, Detective Inspector. I get it. You don’t have to tell me twice.”

“Doesn’t he? I daresay you’re improving, then.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Right.” Lestrade took on a firm tone. “You see those bikers in the corner over there? Big one’s a mate of mine. Don’t think for a minute I won’t get him to help set you two straight if I have to.”

Sherlock looked away, annoyed. John thought he heard him mutter something like, “Interesting choice of phrase.”

John ignored it and turned round to look at the men Lestrade was nodding toward. His eyes flew over the short-waisted leather jackets, the leather gloves thrust into back pockets of jeans, the leather trousers on a few of them. “Damn. Must be quite the life, eh, Greg?”  He licked his lips involuntarily.

“Yeah. Makes me wish I hadn’t sold the bike. Should’ve ignored the wife on that one. Live and learn.” He polished off his pint and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Want to meet a few of them? They’re nice lads, if you mind your manners.”

“Yeah. Could do with a change of scenery, anyway.” John stood up and then glanced over at Sherlock. “Coming?”

“I think not, no.” Sherlock answered dismissively. “Manners. Not really my area.”

“Please yourself, then.”  John followed Lestrade over to the other side of the pub.

For the next hour or so, he talked bikes, bike maintenance, equipment, road conditions, everything Sherlock would likely find utterly boring. John tried to ignore the fact that talking about something Sherlock would most likely hate only added to the pleasure of the conversation.

 _That’s just being childish, Watson_ , he told himself.

Best not to think about Sherlock at all. But he couldn’t stop looking over at the other table. And each time his eyes wandered there, he found Sherlock’s locked onto him. What the hell was the man’s problem? Jealous?

_Yeah. Right._

_Sherlock Holmes, consulting genius who could double as a high-end model, jealous for John Watson’s attention._

_Not bloody likely._

The big bloke, Greg’s friend Dominic, nudged John’s elbow. John glanced up. “So,” Dom said, “you know your bikes. You own one?”

“No, no. I spend most of my time running. And in cabs. My, uh, friend there—” John gestured toward Sherlock, who watched him from across the pub.

“Friend?” Dom asked.

John rubbed the back of his neck. “Flatmate. And sort-of business partner, I s’pose. He’s, um, he’s a consulting detective. We…well, he solves crimes.”

“And you?”

“I blog about it. And shoot people occasionally.”

“Hell of a job. Ever get any free time?”

“Not really, no.”

“That’s a shame. You should ride with me sometime. I’d be glad to let you take my bike for a spin, if you like.”

“Ah. Thanks. I’ll, um, keep that in mind, then.” John tried to smile in a friendly but non-committal way. Not that he was offended, not at all, just, well, he wasn’t really looking for anything like that at the moment, and…

“Ready?”

Sherlock’s voice nearly jolted John out of his chair.

 ”Jesus! How’d you get over here so bloody -“

 ”We do have an out-of-town case tomorrow. Fairly early.” Sherlock gave the large man a fake smile and held out a hand. “Sherlock Holmes. I trust my friend hasn’t been boring you with questions.”

 Dominic stood up to his full height, which was a good three inches taller than Sherlock, and offered an overly-firm handshake. “Not in the least. It’s been my pleasure, in fact. Quite a bloke, your friend.”  

“Indeed he is. Never fails to amuse me,” Sherlock replied.

John scrubbed his hand over his face then stood up to leave. “Thanks for the chat. Pleasure to meet you lads. Hope to see you back here sometime.” He nodded at Lestrade. “Night, Greg. Duty calls.”

Greg raised his glass, but didn’t interrupt the conversation around him.

Dom clapped a firm hand on John’s shoulder. “Great talking to you, John. As I said, any time you’re interested, Greg has my number.”

 John stole a glance at Sherlock, but Sherlock’s expression hadn’t changed.

_Thank God._

_Still…_

 John couldn’t quite reach Dom’s shoulder without stretching, but he gripped the man’s bicep so that the leather jacket creaked just a bit. “Thanks, Dom. I’ll definitely be thinking about it. Cheers.”

The cool air outside the pub started to help John clear his head a bit.

 ”I think I had a bit more than I’d planned. How early are we supposed to be up?” he asked Sherlock.

 ”Sleep as late as you wish, but be downstairs and ready to leave by ten. I have a few things to take care of in the city before we leave.” Sherlock’s voice sounded distant. More distant than usual. Then again, it could just be the drink, John decided.

 They walked the rest of the way home in relative silence.

John yawned as he stumbled downstairs the next morning. The sitting room was conspicuously empty—though Sherlock had said he had things to take care of before they left town for the case. John decided he might even have time for more than tea and toast, as Sherlock had told him to be ready by ten, and it was only quarter after nine.

He bumped his shin on a cardboard box just to the left of the coffee table. “2005” was scrawled on the side in Sherlock’s unmistakable handwriting. John could tell it had been sealed, hastily opened, then folded shut again. He squeezed his eyes shut _._

_No. No deducing before breakfast. Tea first. That’s the rule._

 Once in the kitchen, John rummaged through the refrigerator for all he needed to make eggy bread. It was his favorite and a rare treat, since he usually had to gulp down breakfast while rushing out the door behind Sherlock.

John found the repetitive motions of dipping and frying the bread almost relaxing. He hummed tunelessly as he cooked, and he had six pieces on the plate before he realized he should step away from the hob. Six slices were far too many for John, and he knew Sherlock wouldn’t have any, but that wouldn’t stop John from trying to get the skinny wanker to sit down and have a proper breakfast.

He loaded a second plate with three slices, grabbed a knife and fork, and sat at the kitchen table. He was just smearing butter and syrup over the bread when he heard the sound of heavy footsteps pounding up the stairs, footsteps nothing like Sherlock’s quick, graceful leaps.

He quickly cut a piece and shoveled it into his mouth just as the door opened.

 Bad idea, as it turned out, because the sight that greeted him made him cough it back out in surprise.

 ”Sherlock?” he managed to sputter.

 Sherlock was standing before him clad head-to-toe in well-worn leather. Leather bike jacket, leather trousers, leather gloves, and heavy leather boots.

 ”As soon as you’re ready, John. We have ten minutes to spare, I should think. Ah, thank you, but I’ve had my breakfast. I’ll just wait, shall I?” Sherlock plopped down on the leather sofa and shifted, John could swear on purpose, so that the leather of his clothing squeaked against the leather upholstery. Sherlock leaned back and propped his legs on the coffee table.

 Those impossibly-long legs.

 Impossibly-long, leather-clad legs.

 John swallowed hard, even though there was nothing in his mouth.

 ”Right, I’ll just finish,” he stopped for a moment to clear his throat; “I’ll just finish this and I should be ready. To go with you, I mean. For the case.”

“In your own time.” Sherlock put his hands behind his head and rested his neck on the back of the sofa. The movement highlighted the fact that he was wearing a dark button-up shirt that was decidedly not buttoned up nearly enough. John forced himself to look away when he noticed that the light colour underneath the shirt was not, in fact, a white vest; it was Sherlock’s own pale skin.

 John finished his toast in record time and didn’t taste a thing.

 He waited until they were downstairs before he asked the question.

 ”So, um, the clothes. They’re for the case, I assume?”

 Just then, Mrs. Hudson appeared from her flat. “Good morning, John. Ready for your little trip? Sherlock mentioned it this morning, and I thought you boys might want something along the way.”

 She handed John a knapsack.

 ”Just some sandwiches. And just this once. I’m not your housekeeper.”

 ”Um, thank you.” John took the knapsack and looked at it, confused.

When he turned around, Sherlock had already left through the front door.

John hefted the knapsack onto his shoulder, and he stepped out.

There by the kerb was Sherlock-in-Leather. That by itself was still enough to send an unwelcome pang to his lower half.

But Sherlock-in-Leather was now also sitting astride a gorgeous, late-model motorbike, holding one helmet under his arm and another balanced on his thigh.

“Oh, Christ…” John muttered before he swallowed again.

Sherlock handed second helmet to John.

“Can you even ride one of these, Sherlock?” John managed to croak out.

“Of course, John,” Sherlock answered as he put on his own helmet and adjusted the chin strap. “I rode to and from university for an entire year, merely to get a rise out of Mycroft.”

Get a rise? Interesting choice of words

“Right. Okay. Umm… I’ll just…,” John put on the helmet (white, obviously hired with the bike, unlike Sherlock’s dark one with his initials picked out in silver at the back). 

The pillion seat was higher than the rider’s seat, of course, so John had to use Sherlock’s arm and shoulder as leverage to help him climb aboard.

But that was the easy part.

Actually, running off the edge of Tower Bridge and into the Thames would be the easy part compared to the next bit.

John would now have to hold on to Sherlock’s waist, hold on tightly, and somehow manage to hide the firmness that had been growing in his jeans for the past five minutes.

_Bloody hell._

_Shit._

Sherlock started the motor, revved it, used his foot to lift up the kickstand and began to move the bike forward at a reasonably slow speed.

John wasn’t balanced properly, of course, because he was holding his behind as far back on the pillion seat as possible whilst keeping a loose grip on Sherlock’s ribcage.  He slid sharply to the right, nearly off of the seat, and he had to tighten his grip and scoot his crotch all the way up against Sherlock’s lush, leather-encased backside.

_Utter, utter bastard._

_I’ll kill him._

_And then I’ll drive this fucking bike into a lake._

For the next hour, Sherlock zigged and zagged the bike through traffic, hit every possible dip and bump in the road, and managed to move his hips much more than could be strictly necessary.

John had been fully- or partially- erect most of the time, and there was no way to hide it as he jostled against the insane (and gorgeous) man in front.

Eventually, Sherlock pulled off of the main roads and onto smaller lanes as the scenery changed from urban to something approximating rural.

They finally stopped at a clearing near a small tract of woods. Sherlock put down the kickstand at the side of the small lane, and he turned to look over his shoulder, waiting for John to move first. John wondered if he would be able to walk at all after he dismounted.

He could, but only just.

Sherlock swung one long leg off of the bike. He undid the chin strap, removed his helmet, and shook out his dark curls.

_Jesus._

_He’s doing this, all of this, on purpose._

John dropped his helmet onto the ground, shrugged off the knapsack, walked over to Sherlock, and grabbed the leather jacket at the chest.

“What the HELL are you playing at, Sherlock?” He gave him a short but firm shake. “Hmm? Answer me. Am I your experiment? Is this some sort of punishment for last night? Because, I’ll tell you right now, I’m this close to  —“

Sherlock wrapped his long arms around John and stopped his mouth with a kiss.

To John’s dismay, it took nearly two seconds before he could make himself push Sherlock away and throw a clumsy punch.

His fist only barely connected.

Enough to leave some kind of mark, at least.

And then the thought of his mark on Sherlock’s gorgeous skin made everything turn hazy.

John pulled Sherlock back to him and kissed him hungrily.  He put his arms around Sherlock’s slender hips and pushed their bodies together as he moved his own hips against the erection that was growing in Sherlock’s leather trousers.

“You. Gorgeous. Bastard.” John growled between kisses and bites along Sherlock’s neck.

He pushed Sherlock backward until they were leaning against a tree just out of sight of the lane. The thick leather jacket protected Sherlock’s back from the rough bark. Nothing, though, could protect him from the ravenous look in John’s eyes.

“I’m going to have you right here, Sherlock Holmes, so if this is not what you want, you need to find the words now.”

Sherlock’s eyelids dropped halfway. “This is what I want, John. This is what we both want.”

John’s hands flew down Sherlock’s front, undoing shirt buttons, belt buckle, and flies.  He placed kisses and soft bites along the pale torso, then he moved back to that neck, those lips.

He fisted the fingers of one hand in Sherlock’s hair. With the other, he undid his jeans and moved aside his pants until his naked, needy cock was pressed against Sherlock’s.

“Unnnhh… God…,” Sherlock moaned.

“Fuck, yes,” was John’s only reply.

He held their cocks close together as he rutted against Sherlock, slowly, then faster, pressing the long, lean body hard against the tree with each thrust.

It didn’t take long.

John didn’t care. He’d needed this too much. He’d been aching for this man since…. God knew when. Maybe ever since that afternoon at Bart’s.

“You okay? All right?” John panted, his head dropped against Sherlock’s collar bone.

“Fine,” Sherlock replied breathlessly.

John raised his eyes to meet Sherlock’s.  “Only fine?”

Sherlock smiled wickedly.

“Brilliant. Amazing. Fantastic.”

John laughed and smoothed a damp curl near Sherlock’s temple.  “Now what?” he asked

Sherlock fished the keys out of the pocket of his leather jacket and placed them in John’s hand.

“When you’re ready, you can drive me home.”

John smirked.

“I’ll do exactly that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. With pleasure. And as often as you’ll let me, in fact.”

**Author's Note:**

> A gift for voyeuristicvamp (alinta?) in the September Johnlockchallenge Gift Exchange. Thanks to my beloved lawatsonholmes for co-writing the first half with me!


End file.
